Dinner left behind more than warmth in their stomachs—it left stillness.
The plates had been cleared, the tray taken away with practised silence, and the door closed once more upon the guest chamber. The candlelight remained, steady and low, casting a soft glow that turned the stone walls gentle rather than imposing. Outside, the castle had settled into its nocturnal rhythm: distant footsteps fading, murmured voices dissolving into hush, the slow, eternal breath of a place that had endured centuries of nights like this.
Luke leaned back in his chair, hands resting loosely over his abdomen, eyes half-lidded. There was a particular kind of exhaustion that followed a full day not of battle, not of fear, but of thinking. Of weighing possibilities. Of realising just how much responsibility tomorrow carried.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, more to the room than to Ilyrana. "Is going to be… a lot."
